Knife's Edge
by lamentomori
Summary: "Where first?" You ask him softly. He seems to be considering this carefully. "Leg, down where my boots cover." His voice is soft and small. You press the edge against his skin and draw it slowly along. Warnings: 7Sins Continuity, 2nd person Colt PoV, Slash (Colt/Punk), Smut, Profanity, Knife Play.


_Warnings: 7Sins Continuity, 2nd person Colt PoV, Slash (Colt/Punk), Smut, Profanity, Knife Play_

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_I'm coming calling, Cabana. - Punkers 11:02_

_What? - sent 11:08_

_I danced like whore! Now, I want my payment! - Punkers 11:11_

_I gave you a sandwich! - sent 11:16_

_THAT was my TIP! I want my payment! - Punkers 11:21_

_What do you want, Punkers? - sent 11:26_

_Be there in five. - Punkers 11:29_

"So, my payment." He doesn't bother knocking when he gets to your place, just lets himself in, kicks off his shoes and hangs up his coat. He flops down on the sofa beside you, tossing a little box into your lap as he sits. You're dubious of this box, the last little box he gave you was a few years ago and it contained the sounds, whilst you might have enjoyed them several times now; back then you'd wanted to give the damn things back.

"What's this?" You ask him, shaking it, not daring to open it.

"Look and see." He grins at you; you lift the lid of the box and stare for a few seconds before snapping it closed.

"No." You press the box to his chest.

"But-" He starts, tone softly wheedling.

"No." You're firm in this, there's no way you're going to hurt him.

"Colt." He says your name, softly, moves to straddle your thighs.

"No, Punk. No fucking way." You tell him firmly, you're not being swayed on this.

"C'mon, I do what you want."

"I don't care."

"I trust you."

"No."

"Colt."

"No."

"Cab-"

"No, no, no! No fucking way, not now, not _ever_."

"Please?"

"Punk, I am not using a knife on you." Because that was what was in the box, a wickedly sharp looking, little blade and there is no way you're using that on him.

"Fine." His eyes narrow, he gets off your lap gracefully and picks the box up from the sofa beside you. "You won't do it, someone else will."

"Punk." You call to him, it's an empty threat, you know that, there's no way he'd _ever_ trust another man to even think about kissing him, let alone filleting him with a blade but you feel like you should probably explain why this is out.

"What?" He snaps, one shoe on his foot, the other in his hand.

"C'mere." Your hand out to him. He scowls but sets the shoe down, comes and stands in your arms. "Why?"

"Why what?" He asks face against your neck, his arms childishly crossed over his chest, refusing to return your embrace.

"Why do you want me to, you know." You're not sure you can say the words; you can't wrap your head around the idea that he wants you to hurt him purposefully. You've spent so much time worrying about inadvertently hurting him, that doing it on purpose is utterly abhorrent to you.

"To what?" He wriggles out of your arms and smiles lazily at you. "Cut me?" You nod slightly, you want to gather him back to you, that he's even thought of you hurting him, it makes you worry. "I wanna know what it feels like, I guess; see how much I can take."

"Nonononononononono." You gather him close in your arms and mutter against his hair. "Not hurting you, never hurting you." You squeeze him tightly; he makes an odd little squeaking noise and tries to pry your arms from around himself.

"Okay, okay. Fuck let me breath!" You loosen your hold slightly, still keeping him close, your arms holding him firmly against you. "So you don't like the idea, I take it?" He laughs softly.

"Punkers, how many times have I tried to back out of things because they could hurt you?" You ask him, your face against his neck, not letting him move even an inch in your arms.

"Lots?" He laughs again. "How many times you hurt me, Colt?" You sigh.

"This would hurt; it would be me _intentionally_ hurting you, Punkers. I _can't_ do that." You squeeze him again, he sighs softly.

"Think about it?" You shake your head; you don't want to think about, the idea of cutting him open, of his blood pouring out of a wound you've caused. The thought makes you feel sick. "You've busted me in the ring."

"Different." You mutter, resting your chin on his shoulder, staring at the door behind him, your hands sliding under his clothes to touch his skin, stroking it gently.

"How?" His voice takes on that subtle, wheedling tone again.

"Wrestling, it's different." You're not being persuaded by him, you're going to stand firm on this, there is absolutely no way you're taking a knife to his skin.

"Different _how_?" He squirms slightly, pulls back in your arms to look at you. "How is hurting me there and hurting me here different?"

"Intent." You say dryly, when you wrestled, you tried your damnedest not to hurt him, not that you've been in the ring together in a while, years even. This, though, if you used that little knife on him, it would be with the intent to cause him pain and no, not happening.

"Intent?" He asks you, one hand cupping your cheek, a soft look in his eyes.

"Stop it." You step away from him. "I'm not doing it; pick something else, anything else but not this." His eyes narrow and he toes off the one sneaker you'd forgotten he'd even put back on. "What are-" You start but he's on you like a flurry, kissing you frantic and hard.

"Fuck me." He mutters against your lips, before he goes back on the offensive, his kisses feel more like skirmishes than kissing. You're really not in the mood for it to be rough, you'd kind of like to curl up on the sofa and try and watch one of the innumerable movies you've got recorded but he seems intent. You try and slow him down, try and ease this up but he's demanding, insistent and determined. "Fuck me, Cabana." His hand gropes over your cock and you feel it twitch in your pants.

"C'mon, bed?" You say to him, catching his hand, easing it off of your groin.

"Here." He mutters against your lips, one leg wrapping around your waist.

"_Here_?" You frown slightly as he pulls back from you.

"Here, fuck me, hard and fast and now." His eyes are filled with something dangerously close to exhaustion, you frown it's not the expression you were expecting.

"Lemme get some-"

"No! Now!" He wraps his arms around your neck and pulls you close, another battle of a kiss and you pull from him, something is wrong with him, something is bothering him and you really should get to the bottom of it. Fucking him in the hallway is a good idea in general but if he's in a mood, it'll be terrible.

"Not happening, Punkers." There is no way you're taking him without some kind of lubricant, you'll tear him if you do, you're not trading hurting him one way for another. He scowls and pulls away from you, stuffs his feet in his sneakers, grabs his coat and is gone before you've really had time to process anything. The little box with the knife in it, still sitting on the shelf in your hall where he left it. You pick up the box and sigh, not entirely sure what just happened. Punkers' is in a mood, that much is clear. He's tired, the exhaustion in his eyes confirms that and he wants you to hurt him, which is causing the biggest mental stumbling block you've ever encountered. You can't intentionally harm him but he needs something from you, something he's interpreting as needing you to cut him.

You end up in your little office, the knife box open beside you and your browser open with more tabs than your shitty computer can really process. Knife play, blood kink, the Latin names for it, that turned out to be Greek. Really, you learn the weirdest shit for the benefit of your best friend, the ungrateful bastard. You spend all day reading, learning and something of a plan comes to you, something that should cater to whatever it is he needs. You think is this something to do with control again but then really, what isn't with Punkers? Always in control, always disciplined, always at war with his emotions and his need to be in charge but wanting you to look after him, trusting you in ways he can't and doesn't trust himself. You suppose you do the same thing, trust him to look out for you, to look after you, to be there when you need him to be. You sigh and pick up your cell, wondering briefly if it's worth calling him, he'll likely hang up.

"I'm sorry." It takes barely any time before you feel him draped over your back, his breath in your ear.

"Hey." You place your hands over his and keep him pressed against your back. "Was going to call you."

"Wouldn't have answered." He mutters and kisses the side of your head. "In a mood, sorry." You chuckle softly and stroke his hands.

"In a mood? _Really_, I hadn't noticed." He snorts but says nothing, just stands behind you, resting his weight against you for a while.

"What you doing?" He asks eventually.

"Once." You say, standing, forcing him to relinquish his spot. "Once and once only. I'm not doing it again." His eyebrows rise.

"_Really_?" He sounds rather shocked and picks up the knife.

"Not now." You take the knife from him and place it back in its box, closing the lid firmly. "C'mon." You take him to the living room, sit on the sofa and let him flop down beside you. "I've a few rules."

"Oh?" He squirms on the sofa and wraps himself around you awkwardly.

"One, blindfold, two, you need to be tied down." You keep your voice firm, not looking at him.

"Tied up? Why?" He sounds mildly confused.

"I don't want you jerking and making a wound bigger than it _has_ to be." You feel him nod.

"What else?"

"Somewhere easy to clean, with something sturdy to tie you to, a table, a chair, something like that."

"No bed?" You shake your head; bed is not a good place for this. "Okay." He says softly. "My place? The dining room, big old table in there." You nod, it's a completely useless, big, old table that, you think, has only ever been used for having sex on, perhaps not _that _useless really.

"Okay." You nod.

"When?" He seems keen, now that you've agree to this, it seems that he's desperate to get started.

"You're gonna need time to heal. When you finished with house shows?" You ask him, your hand worming its way under his shirt to stroke his skin.

"Got the next three days free." He pulls away from you, a smile on his lips. You nod and close your eyes, three days doesn't sound very long but you suppose it will have to do.

"Go home; I'll be there in an hour, two tops. Shower, Punkers. _Clean_, very clean, I don't want you getting infected." He scowls.

"I don't gotta drink fucking cranberry again, do I?" He mutters, getting off the sofa and offering you his hand. When you take it, he hauls you up and kisses you softly. "Thank you for this. I know you don't want to but _thank you_." You nod and kiss him on his forehead.

"The things I do for you." You sigh and he grins at you.

"You love me." His grin far brighter and happier than any other expression you've seen on his face all day.

"Fuck off home, Punkers. I'll be there in a bit." He laughs and nods, pokes his head round the door once he's got himself ready to leave.

"Love you too! See you in a while!" You shake your head as you hear your door closing. You sigh and scrub at your face. The things you do for this man.

When you get to his place, he's sitting on the table in his dining room, an old greyish towel spread over it, naked and grinning.

"Lie down." You wait for him to comply with your order and then tape him down. Athletic tape, who knew it had so many uses, you think with a wry smile. "You okay?" You ask him, looking down at his prone and bound form.

"Peachy." He mutters.

"Remember, you say stop, I stop." You stroke his cheek and set the knife box down, close to his head. You leave him and go to the kitchen, making a cup of coffee, drinking from it slowly. You come back to the dining room; watch him trying to see where you are. You take the sheet of paper you brought with you and hold it up so he can see, then set it on his chest. You open the knife box and hold the wicked little blade close to his face. "How sharp is this thing, Punkers?" You ask him softly.

"Plenty." He says, his eyes wide as he stares at the knife. You slice at the paper, it falls in two easily, plenty sharp indeed. His breathing has speeded up, eyes focused on the little blade in your hand.

"Head up." You tell him and pick up the little black scarf you took as a blindfold; you wrap it around his head and wave your hand in front of his face. "You see anything?"

"Whole lot of black." You laugh softly at him and slice at the paper again; his breath catches in his throat. You draw the hilt of the blade over his collarbone and he almost shivers.

"You say stop, Punkers." You try to keep your voice firm and he nods as much as he's able.

"You stop, I know, I know. You've proven it, repeatedly, Colt. It's why I trust you." He smiles softly, trustingly and you feel mildly sick.

"Where first?" You ask him softly. He seems to be considering this carefully.

"Leg, down where my boots cover." His voice is soft and small. You press the edge against his skin and draw it slowly along. He lets out a shaky breath.

"Okay?" You ask him softly, watching the liquid trickle down his skin.

"Again." You repeat you actions, another little line by the first. He keeps you at his shins and calves for a while. "Thigh this time."

"Punkers." You sigh and set your tool down to cup his face in both hands. "Your thigh, you're sure? I don't wanna mark up something so pretty."

"_Please_." He's pretty far gone if he's not complaining about being called pretty, you think, as you watch him, panting softly for breath, his chest heaving and a fine layer of sweat on his skin. You do as he asks though, pay attention to his beautiful thighs, his breath getting faster and faster. "Higher." You move onto his stomach, then up to his chest, by the time you're there, he's almost gasping for breath, body trembling in his bonds. You take his cock in your hand and stroke him to completion surprisingly quickly. As he comes down, you stroke his shaking body, the tremors of his orgasm lasting far beyond what they should.

"Hey, hey, you okay?" You ask him softly, tugging the blindfold from his eyes, he screws his eyes shut. He opens them and cautiously looks at you, then down at his body.

"Where's the blood?" He asks softly. "There's no cuts, nothing. The fuck, Cabana?" His voice is taking an incredulous tone and you smirk easily at him.

"Nope, not a single one." He stares up at you.

"The fuck did you do?" You pick up the credit card you'd been using, dipping it in the warm water once more and press it to the skin of his arm, dragging it down slowly, exactly as you had the whole time. His eyes widen. "You tricked me?"

"Pretty much." You nod, brushing a kiss over his temple. "Told you, I'm not gonna hurt you, even if you want it." He scowls slightly; you hover over his face, wearing an easy smile.

"Asshole." He kisses you. You laugh and untie him from the table, pulling him to his feet and wrapping him up in your arms.

"Yup."

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Inspired by a suggestion from **EmbraceLove**, I can only hope it marries somewhat with what was in your mind and doesn't disappoint too much. :3

**_Reviews are always good so you know, leave one in the box! _**

_Something you've always wanted someone to write for Punk and Cabana, or someone else even, lemme know and I take a stab at it. ;)_


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